


The Devil in the flesh

by colorfulcharades



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Berlermo Secret Santa, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Sickfic, just sugar and spice and heist husbands having a morning, kith-freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28277331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorfulcharades/pseuds/colorfulcharades
Summary: “Good morning to you too, and I'm quite alright-”“And I am quite stupid, no? Is that what you think?"______________________Andrés deals with a morning cold and the mortifying ordeal of being in love.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	The Devil in the flesh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ele_amato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ele_amato/gifts).



> This work was done for @ele_amato, as part of Berlermo Secret Santa event.

The very moment he woke up, Andrés' dazed mind was immediately met with a dull, distant ache sinking right through him. 

Half past nine, shows the wristwatch on his hand, and only then he registers his body shivering. His joints are sore. 

Wincing at the sudden pain in his neck, he forces himself to look around the room, eyes immediately falling onto the open, frost-painted window right beside the sofa he had apparently spent the night sleeping on. 

_(Fuck.)_

If anybody had asked him, Andrés would admit that, in any occasion and at almost every time of the year, he was close to how people would usually describe a morning person; much unlike Martín who, when necessary, could readily stay working until dawn, skipping nights like nothing happened and sleeping when he wished. By his soulmate's own, half-amused words, Andrés had always been more of a kind to accidentally fall asleep before ten in the evening struck the clock, and wake up at around the same time as the first rays of sunlight would shine upon his window. 

What got him waking up cold on the living room's couch was probably a result of that, too. 

Usually, mornings of late December would always render him quite slow: he would stay in bed for a while, willing himself to come face to face with piercing cold and just staring at ornaments of frost on their apartment windows; sweet warmth under the sheets making the limbs unwilling to move. He would get up slow, like he didn’t care for time passing, would make his way to the kitchen to make two cups of coffee, one for himself and one for Martín, and the engineer would join him not long after, discussing newest ideas he came up with while laying out plans and suggestions over the coffee table as effortlessly as one would read a morning newspaper.

This morning was different for that, too-Martín was nowhere to be seen. 

Last evening, he grabbed the car keys in a hurry, off to go alone overnight to one of their previous hideouts-a village situated a few hours of driving away-to bring back some plans they threw aside some two months ago. Inspiration lit his gaze aflame, and Andrés listened in amusement to his suggestion of renewing old ideas for the next heist, one that they were a few steps into planning already. He would likely be back a little after he wakes up, he said, or maybe closer to noon, notifying Andrés from the door to not await him for coffee in the morning. 

Then he closed the door behind him, swiftly, leaving the aftertaste of his smile and enthusiastic voice lingering sweet in the air. 

Andrés had, at first, kept himself up just in case, unfamiliar lack of Martín's presence planting a tiniest seed of anxiety within his thoughts. He wouldn't exactly call himself worried, no, but had placed a phone on the coffee table beside the couch regardless, made sure he can be available in case of emergency. Boredom and exhaustion spread quickly, contagiously, so he picked up a book to distract himself with, one of the newest ones that caught his attention: _The Devil in the flesh._ Laying back against the heavy cushions, Andrés allowed himself to sink in the serenity and quiet of the living room, in the way flames cackled and danced in the fireplace and frosted breeze caressed his cheek from the slightly open window, carrying the scent of spices from down the street. 

The book was, for a lack of better word, quite a captivating piece of work, so much so that he hardly noticed when the words started blurring together, soon falling into a deep sleep, that same book over his face, on the living room couch.

But the night was far from kind. Flames from the fireplace had slowly withered, leaving Andrés wrapped in darkness, left to the mercy of winter storm sending wind and snowflakes through the open window nearby. Hours were quiet, not a sound disturbing his sleep, and as the morning drew near, cold had slowly seeped all over him, sneaking in waves underneath his clothes.

And all that lead to how he found himself now-waking in unease, with pain following suit; no warmth in the room, no cover in sight for his freezing body. 

A bitter cough sent him constricting, hissing at the soreness that burned through his windpipe. 

_(What a great fucking morning.)_

And as if to put an end to his scattered thoughts and bitter realizations, the moment gave him a sound of a key clicking the doorknob open; and of footsteps entering the house, ever-assured, ever-confident, unmistakably belonging to Martín. 

_(Andres doesn’t know when exactly he started to recognize him by his steps alone.)_

He took a few more seconds to enter the hallway and there he was, not even noticing Andrés as he went to take off his shoes, scent of what appeared to be cinnamon and fresh pastry floating through the room, barely making way through Andrés' nigh-dysfunctional sense of smell. As per instinct, he moved to get up, to free the couch for both of them and prepare coffee like he did each morning.

Tried he did, that much is true, but the room started to spin almost immediately, piercing ache shooting through his nerves, from his limbs, his back and his head, from _everywhere_ , and his body was sent slumping back against the sofa without even having raised up. The movement irritates his already sore throat, and he turns to the side to make breathing easier and stop another coughing fit.

Martin’s voice is a soft echo through the room. 

_“Andrés? What’s wrong?”_

Not bothering to await a response, he walks up to the counter, placing their breakfast on the table and moving to take his jacket off. The wave of cold is quick to creep up his spine, however, stopping him dead in his tracks, so he leaves the heavy coat over his shoulders as he turns to look back at Andrés. That’s when it hits him-the window open halfway just beside the couch, on top of which his boyfriend was shivering visibly; the fireplace filled up with ashes of last night’s fire, discarded book laying crumpled beneath the sofa, the same one that Andrés was reading yesterday evening when he left.

_“Don't tell me you stayed in this freezer overnight-”_

In a second, he finds himself beside the sofa, hand over Andres’ shoulder and caressing almost gently; the body beneath him shivers, Andres is freezing cold, and there is a bitter frown on his face that tells Martín everything about how he feels right now. 

_“Good morning to you too, and I'm quite alright-”_

The words are quick to rob Martín of his patience. 

_“And I am quite stupid, no? Is that what you think? Stay here and don’t move, I’ll warm up this cave in a second”._

Andrés' gaze lowers, expression softening just slightly, and Martín jumps back onto his feet to make his way into the bedroom. Once there, he turns around to find what he needed, stealing a pillow and a blanket from Andrés' bed and carrying them back to the living room where he was currently sitting, tense and just a tad bit annoyed. 

The covers fall heavy over Andrés' shivering body, pillow comfortably nested beneath his head, and Martín almost smiles at the way he sighs in slight relief before turning to the fireplace. 

_"It will be warm soon, don't you worry one bit"._

Andrés nods, unsure if the gesture was even visible, and through clanking of wood disturbing the silence he finds himself staring at Martín, finding little details to focus on, little gifts for his eyes to admire. The leather coat he hasn’t yet discarded falls strong over his shoulders, and if his blurred gaze could focus enough, Andrés swears he could make out the tint of slight red on top of his ears, tiny drops of melted snow nesting like crystals in the black of his hair. 

_(When, last winter, Martín kissed him for the first time, Andrés could see them all the same.)_

The eyes look on and Martín is all the energy that has left Andrés overnight, lightweight in his step as he whistles a familiar song, cracking of burning wood serving as his company; Andrés is only half-aware of the fact that he is unable to stop staring, unable to look away from every movement of Martín's hands as they put the water for coffee to boil, moving swiftly around the kitchen, almost dancing. He carefully takes out the cinnamon pastries to put them on a plate, and Andres finds the thought of his fingers carrying the taste unfairly distracting. 

Overcoming him is an urge, a sudden need to feel his warmth; he ends up calling Martín's name before he can stop to think, frowning at the way a botched word rasps through his sore throat and clogged nose. 

Martín looks up from the counter, eyebrow arching questioningly as a wide smile uncovers the gap of his canine, and then he’s back to the couch once again, situating himself comfortably at Andrés' side. 

_“I’m pretty sure my name isn’t Bartín, now is it?”_

The little frown he gets from Andrés is near comical, enough to make him chuckle as his hands start threading through the dark curls of his lover's hair. 

_“I’m just joking, Mr. de Fonollosa, what can I help you wi-”_

Before he can finish the sentence or predict what he’s doing, Andrés’ arms grab like a vice around his shoulders, pulling him into a sudden kiss. Overwhelming doesn’t begin to cover it; there is an insatiable need in the way Andrés melts in his embrace, parts his lips in a sigh when Martín starts responding. His hands find Andrés’ waist to push him down onto the couch and lean over him, almost getting too carried away before the realization even hits him on what was about to happen. 

The kiss slows to a halt before he parts from Andrés, earning him a little sigh of protest, and Martín finds himself smiling again when he notices the gaze tinted with desire looking back at him. 

_“What was that just now, hm?"_ he whispers in a gentle tone, right above the lips he would spend a century kissing, _"...did the fever get to your brain already?”_

Instead of a proper response, Andrés sends a drowsy smile his way.

_“It’s not my fault you’re so distracting, Martín. I couldn’t resist”._

Feigning annoyance, Martín scoffs before laughing again, raising a hand from Andrés' waist to lean it against his forehead. The skin is hot to the touch, quite noticeably yet not worryingly so, and he takes a mental note to find the thermometer as soon as possible. 

_“You do have a fever, idiot! What if I get sick too-”_

_“Why of course, I would take care of you”._

Martín sends him a slightly annoyed look, but his expression remains endearing nevertheless. 

_“While we're on playing nurse, I almost forgot…”_

Then he gets up, disappearing for a moment out of Andrés' sight; and when he comes back, it's with a tray of warm pastries and two cups of hot black coffee in his hands, sitting beside him again as he lowers their breakfast on the little table by the couch.

_"Only now I realize I should have made tea for you-"_

_“Matters not. Coffee is just fine”._

They eat in comfortable silence, sending each other glances laced with affection along the way; Martín's smile is full of understanding when he notices Andrés frown slightly, bitterly; no doubt annoyed by the fact that he can’t taste much of the food's otherwise rich flavor. 

As soon as he recovers, Martín thinks, he will make sure to get him the cinnamon buns again. 

When they finish, he leaves the plates in the sink, walking over to the corner of the room where their gramophone sat in silence. 

Whistling again, he searches through the vinyl records to turn up some music and, satisfied, finds a seat beside Andrés while gentle tones of Italian ballads float through the slowly warming room. 

_“Are you better now? Feel like sleeping?”_

Andrés is quite tired beside him, dull ache through his body slowly making way for exhaustion to set in, wave after wave. 

But he doesn't want to sleep yet, not now, not with Martín's very existence doing a wonder to keep him awake, occupying his mind without so much as trying.

He doesn't want to sleep, so he shakes his head in refusal. 

_“What can I do then…”_ Martín trails off, before his eyes land on the floor and he leans crouching down, hands touching around the carpet under the coffee table, as if trying very hard to reach something. When he emerges, a book from last night is sitting in his hand, that wide, satisfied smile painted back over his face. 

_“Devil in the flesh? Interesting. Would you like me to read for you?”_

_“I’m not a child, Martín”._

_“So that’s a yes. Fantastic, lay back and relax a bit”._

And like it always had been in the face of that smile, Andrés is rendered without space nor will to complain; instead giving a light nod before Martín's hand on his shoulder helps him lean back against the pillow. The very sight of Martín's face mesmerizes his every sense, and he doesn't bother to acknowledge the book when it's Martín's voice reading, to acknowledge the world when Martín's sweet lips are there, reading him the words. It's easy for eyes to drink in the heavenly sight of Martín's face, as it is for all the thoughts to stray, so he focuses his entire being onto Martín as the rest of his surroundings fades into a feverish blur. 

_“So, let’s see… **If I have dwelt at some length on this episode it is because, more than any other, it represents for me the strange period of the war, and because it shows how I was affected less by the picturesque than poetic side of things...** ”_

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas Ele!
> 
> Thank you for being one of the few good aspects of my year, for becoming my cherished and wonderful friend, and for planning many enjoyable projects with me. I hope this will bring at least a tiny smile on your face. 
> 
> Love u lots,  
> Dun


End file.
